


Second Best

by Finnspiration



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finnspiration/pseuds/Finnspiration
Summary: Wolfe ponders arrangements at the brownstone, and Archie's growing up process, such as it is.





	Second Best

 

In his own head, Archie had quite the rivalry with Mr. Panzer at the beginning, off and on for quite some time.  He's the jealous sort, my Mr. Goodwin, and I must admit, though it does me no credit, that I encouraged that in him at the beginning.  It seemed the best and fastest way to bring him up to snuff.

I let him know, in my own ways, that he was second choice to Saul Panzer, that Saul had never let me down, and that Archie's presence would be unnecessary in the brownstone, if Saul had only consented to live here in his stead.  Mr. Goodwin would have been unnecessary, and could become extraneous at any time were Panzer's decision to change. It was only Saul's peccadillo of needing his own freedom and preferring to remain self-employed that kept Archie's presence tolerable, as a second best.

Saul is too taciturn and well-brought-up to ever let on, but I think it amused him, at first.  Yet he changed his mind somewhere along the way, and with it, he somehow changed the rest to something far more humane.  Archie's rivalry and anger faded away. I'm not certain what Saul said to him, or did, but it must have been convincing. They became able to work together without friction, adding humor and eventually friendship.  

These days, any rivalry is only an old reflex, part of their jokes.  There is nothing underneath it. Saul has set Archie at ease completely.  Sounder heads and, perhaps, hearts have prevailed in the end. 

I no longer choose to inspire jealousy or nerves in Archie.  He works hard enough to gain my approval without the need for extra goading.  

'All mouth and trousers' is a phrase that some would use for a young man like Archie.  It amuses me. But he is more than that, after all. He has a brain and has learned how to use it to the best of his abilities.  Petty jealousy and rivalry are no longer needed. 

He is more secure in his place in the brownstone, and more confident of his own strengths.  He works to please me as much as he does to urge me into action, and it is not now the threat of unemployment or even disgrace that furnishes his labor.

I am a ruthless man.  In my own ways, I make my choices, go after them, and always get what I want.  I have tried to keep my wants and needs within reasonable and harmless bounds. Largely, I believe I have succeeded: a life of the gourmand, orchid grower, and the eternal student of the human mind, I dabble in detective work to pay the bills.  When I take a case, I solve it.

Cocooned safely with my pleasures and private goals, I have not for decades been tempted to use my ruthless will to produce any effect upon the world which would be to its detriment.  Rather the opposite, if my detective work has in balance done more good than harm. I believe that it has.

I have seen enough of demagogues and idealists who seek power to transform the world, and then power for its own sake.  I have seen the monsters they become. I do not want power, beyond the domains of the mind, or this brownstone, or on a case I've been hired to solve.  

I keep work and effort to an absolute minimum.  I know myself well enough to understand that I have what it would take to be what I do not want to become.  Instead of power, I chose pleasure and rest, and that is by far the happier choice. I have no regrets.

I like to think of my home, with the men I employ, as an oasis, an island of safety and civilization in the swirling sea of a world gone mad.  Once I trod the world with the insouciant confidence of Archie, though in a different time and a much less crowded part of the world. These days, leaving my routine or my cocoon causes me pain that bothers me more than the physical.  

Some visible scars cause pain.  Others would no doubt make me a pleasure for psychiatrists to try to pry apart.  But I keep my own counsel. 

If I am ruthless now, I was more so then, when I first hired Archie.  I have never raised a hand to him, but I found my ways to whip him into discipline.  In those early years, I was frequently brutal, wishing to toughen him up. I had pried apart his soul and knew exactly how to look at him, what to say to him, to make him feel he was worthless if he did not conform to my wishes—and bring me results.  

If he had ever cracked when taken in by the police and been bothered by them for hours, kept from food and dignity and rest, questioned and harassed for protecting a client and doing as I bid him, then I would have thrown him out on his ear, and he knew it.  

Those were days when men stood in line for bread and soup, and jobs were not easy to come by, much less good ones.  He knew he could join those ranks at any time, if I chose to cut him loose. For all his wit and cleverness and good looks, he could not materialize a good job any more than the thousands in those lines, for he was young and inexperienced and had no resources.  And more than that, being fired would have meant that he would have failed. He would have earned my distrust and disgust, and he feared that as much as the breadlines.

I could cut him to ribbons with a single curl of the lip, or one cutting remark.  Of course, I used Saul against him, as I did all things, all other things.

In some ways, I was trying to send him away, and in other ways I was trying to bring him to heel, creating the discipline of a soldier in the Great War, even though that was far from what I wanted from him.  

Did I truly want a soldier who would surge from a trench on worthless orders, courting certain death?  No. I wanted the balance of a deadly sharp blade, ready to explode into action, obedient instantly, but I wanted more than that.  I wanted a man willing to take assertive action and use good judgment in the thick of battle. I wanted mind and initiative, not mere obedience.  We both learned that, in time.

He was to be my stand-in, and in those early days, he was never good enough for me.  His freaks of memory were little better to me than an exceptional parrot's, if not combined with brains and judgment.  He was young and brash, emotional, vulgar, and wild. He would gladly crack jokes till it got his face smashed in, merely for the pleasure of getting a reaction.  

But he stayed, and grew, and I suppose I matured in my own way, too.  These days, if he ever cracked, I would still bring him home. I have promised myself to never leave him out in the cold again, or make him think I will.

There was sadly nothing to be done about his brain.  He is not foolish, but he does not have the ability to put all extraneous details aside and concentrate on the material facts.  It is his saving grace and also his curse. He will forever be frustrated when he measures his brain against my own. He will never truly be able to stand in for me, in any real way.  I have given that part up. But he has wit and charm and good manners, when he chooses to use them. 

He is no longer a hungry, desperate, angry boy, but a sleek, confident man—one who likes good food, fast cars, expensive clothes, and pretty girls.  He has become more abrasive in some ways, less so in others. His inability to separate the extraneous has made him a minor talent in his own right, with his colorful retellings of client cases as stories.  The details he includes are what make these tales perplexing and of interest to the average reader, with enough witticisms to hold the wavering attention of the average mind.

I do not denigrate detective tales.  They bring innocent pleasure to millions, and reinforce the idea that good can, will, and must triumph over evil.  Life by no means bears this out, but the ideal is at the very least worth cultivating. A public consciousness of the ineffectiveness and shabbiness of murder is to be cultivated in every way possible.  

To be held up as one of those avenging angels who bring about justice is by no means unflattering, despite the liberal jabs against me that Archie places in his books.  There is simply no denying that I am the heroic figure in his little stories, and no amount of padding, of either sort, can disguise that fact.

His writing has also brought more business than not, although it has also created foolish ideas, such as that I am in the main a detective, or concerned entirely with righting the world's wrongs.  

I spent long enough in that pursuit.  No. I am a lover of food, orchids, and books.  There are joys yet to discover and worlds yet to live in, without leaving the sacred safety of this place.  It is my true triumph, creating this life for myself, out of nothing. A safe place to land, when all else failed me.  I have enough; I am content.

In the end, I'm glad to have done what little I could for others as well, although not without asking a high price.  

Fritz has had his own safe place to land and to heal, but I asked much for it.  He could head a restaurant, but he works and lives with me, cooking for a household, with occasional guests.  His plaudits are private rather than the top billing he deserves. He has made that bargain, and, I believe, not regretted it.

Archie could cut a swath through the world on his own these days, but he could not be so close to genius, or exercise his wit so freely, should he choose to leave.  As well, here, he knows that, no matter what, I will not leave him in the hands of the police. He, in his own way, is protected. He will never be forgotten and he will never be abandoned—but he has to give everything else up and stay here, with me.  

That price was too high for Mr. Panzer.  He didn't need anything from me. He created his own safe world, after the war took what it could from him.  

Archie and Fritz needed this place, and so paid the price.  In a way, Theodore did as well, though I still see him more as collaborator and artist then employee.  

Fritz, whose nerves were shot to hell after the war, would likely have taken his own life if he been unable to reach the peace, safety, rest, and comforts of a good, quiet kitchen.  My home has been to him a place to heal and to practice his creative arts. 

Archie, who was hungry, angry, and afraid, for all his loud brashness, finally found a place to settle, where he would not be forgotten or go without.  This took time, of course, but I saw from the first day that he wanted to stay, and I used that to mold him into the assistant I wished to have.

Fritz was kinder to him.  He used to give me sad, disapproving looks when he could tell I had goaded Mr. Goodwin past bearing.  Fritz always had a gentle heart, but after the war, he could not bear any cruelty at all. Archie would sit in the kitchen while Fritz worked, and sulk and drink milk and pretend not to be upset, and spent time in Fritz's soothing company.  

At first, Archie did not always appreciate Fritz and would sometimes practice his wit on him, but as the kitten's claws sharpened and grew, he learned to keep them sheathed.  He learned he did not always have to scratch and claw and spit. Today, he is more Fritz's protector than protectee. They have come to an understanding and a friendship, which pleases me, though I had no hand in it, except perhaps as a goad.

Theodore and Archie reached no such understanding, because Theodore could not see past the intrusion of a bumptious youth, and took that as a threat.  He did not feed, cosset, or gently treat Archie, as Fritz did. Archie has always been a champion at holding a grudge. He sees Theodore not as a single-minded devotee of botany, an artist with an artist's temperament, but as a vituperative nuisance.  I know very well that they would each see the other gone, were it possible. 

Fritz, who had seen too many young men die for no reason, could not bear to have another youth under his roof and not see him always fed if hungry, warmed if cold, comforted if driven near to tears by a harsh superior officer—as we both still thought of me, back then.  

It is better to be an employer.  A soldier can't quit or be fired, and a man of action in one's employ can: a needed and necessary relief valve, even if it never lasts for long.  Quitting and firing are temporary things here, reserved for Archie. Fritz would be shocked and hurt at even the suggestion, but Archie needs these options: to quit, to goad me into firing him.  To get away for a time, and then come home. 

Were I in sympathy with the modern tendency to psychoanalyze, I am certain that I could find meanings in this, or see vestigial adolescence in Archie, who is always interested in women but never ready to commit, who loves driving cars he doesn't own and never will, cars in my name.  He runs errands and jubilantly drinks milk, eventually obeys all orders but rarely without offering sass, and at night he jogs upstairs to his bedroom where he sleeps like a baby, knowing that he is not truly responsible for the house or its upkeep, or even for himself. His work equates readily to a schoolboy's tasks, reporting and writing up, memorization, simple math and accountancy and filing, with errands and the occasional romanticized adventure, in his mind if nowhere else.  Then there is his restlessness, running away from home in the form of quitting or being fired, and returning and reuniting with a father figure, or some such twaddle. 

But I do not truly believe any of that.  This is Archie's home, and he, too, pays for it with his all.  That is as it has been and will be. His payment for what he receives is that he will never marry, or own a car himself, or make the final decisions of the household.  He is my right hand, and must not go far from me. 

It is right that it should be so, and he would have it no other way, or he would never have seen his way to return after the first or second or third time he quit.  Remaining and throwing his all into this ring is his choice, and not simply because I got him when he was young, and made him fit for my purposes. 

However, I know I had a hand in his creation, and I refuse to regret that.  He could be any of the thousands of cookie-cutter men living dull and conventional lives, if not for me.  He would have found a way to fit into that mold, if he hadn't mine to choose instead. I believe he is as happy here as he would be anywhere, and certainly more useful.

Saul Panzer had some hand in that, I must admit.  He found his own way to guide Mr. Goodwin, teaching him knowledge of the city and its ropes which Archie had not yet learned on his own, and which I could not teach him.  Saul did this without belittling Archie, laughing at him, or lording it over him. In these ways, he has earned a fierce loyalty I should hate to see tested, and would never test myself.  

I would not ask Archie to choose between myself, or Fritz, or Saul, as I do not believe he could do so without breaking.  Aware as I am of the cracks, flaws, and weaknesses of Mr. Goodwin, I still would not like to see him break under any circumstance.  I far prefer the jubilant, childish flummery to the discipline I originally wished for. 

I suspect, and have for a very long time, that Mr. Panzer is far my superior in decency, and could rival me in brainpower if he so chose.  My respect for the man is high, more from the ways he refrains than the ways in which he shows his strengths. At any rate, I suspect he effected many changes in Archie, easing him along from resentful, bumptious youth to competent colleague, to social acquaintance, and finally to trusted friend and equal.

Saul had no need to put Archie on his level.  He could have looked down on him to this day, or decided to keep him on his toes in ways other than through poker playing.  However, Mr. Panzer chose another path. He would rather have a friend, and draw out Archie's better qualities, than hold him at bay and sharpen his iron with rivalry.  

Saul does not let many people into his life.  He is a private man who chooses to be responsible for no one but himself.  But when he offers loyalty, he means it. It is a gift, Saul's choosing to see one as a friend.  I believe it humbled me in a needful way, when I realized that Archie had become Saul's friend, that in this way, Goodwin and I were now equals.  

I can see that he loves Archie, as one man loves another with whom he has been in the trenches.  There are secrets between them I do not know, but I suspect I understand most of them anyway. A look, a word, a chance moment, the brotherhood forged by physical danger and the need for absolute trust that, once given, will not be withdrawn.

It is a different sort of trench, this city, this life, but not unlike a war zone, with roaring vehicles and violence and filth and stench.  Is it any wonder I refuse to leave my house on business, or at all when possible? It is not safe out there.

For all their congeniality, I know Archie would never quit and go to work with Saul, even in the unlikely occurrence of Saul wishing it.  He could not be to Saul what he is to me, and would not know how to be anything else but pest and helper. Saul wouldn't want that. He answers to no man, and consults with none, and will not be pushed or helped.  

Saul combines some of the better qualities and skills from both myself and Archie, and leaves behind many of the flaws.  He has, and is, all he needs, and will have it no other way. I sought to buy those qualities and loyalties once, but ended up respecting him all the more for his ability to walk away.  When Saul quit, he meant it. When Archie quits, he never does.

These days, I know that Mr. Panzer could never replace Archie, whom I no longer see as second best, at least not for my purposes.  Goodwin has become needful to the proper functioning of this home. He belongs here. 

This is his home.  He can return safe from the world's follies and his own brashness.  He can be as loud and irritating as he wishes, and he will be remembered for it in all the ways he craves.  He will write his books and revel in his wit and women. Fritz will feed him, and I will pay him and provide routine and danger and safety.  There will always be another case, and I will always get him out of those back rooms, away from brute policemen. 

He knows he will never be forgotten here.  It is as good as ten thousand orchids to him.

  
  


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**Author's Note:**

> I enjoyed writing Wolfe's POV. I feel that he is always brutally honest with himself, whether it's flattering or not. He can't help being a bit of a snob, but he still loves the family he created. There are times in the stories where he was pretty hard on Archie in my opinion, and this is my explanation.
> 
> I see Wolfe's motivation to do as little as possible as at least slightly noble, because he knows what he's capable of, with his ruthless mental powers, and chooses not to follow that path. Rather than a lazy glutton, he's a man who wants to cause as little harm in the world as possible, while enjoying some peace and quiet in his later years, after a far too eventful youth.


End file.
